A Hydhing Wolf's Eye: Maelstrom of the Dead
by Cal Mcdonald
Summary: Another city, another outbreak. Almost no Umbrella involvement in this story. All the story is focused on the Police Officer characters. UPDATED AFTER YEARS AND YEARS! PLEASE read/review


A Hydhing Wolf's Eyes: Maelstrom of the Dead  
A Resident Evil Fan Fiction by Greg Hartmann

Hey guys! I know its been like 5 years since I updated this. Not a lot of huge changes just yet, some moving around of paragraphs, some cleaning up, and some creative re-organizing. More Updates to follow!

Officer Danbrooke knew he was dying, he knew by the fact that the light of the small apartment was fading gradually from his sight, while he remained stationary. But mostly he could sense it. The blood flowed freely from wounds in his abdomen and his left shoulder; he lay in a thick pool of it. He was supposed to be dead, the...things that had done this hadn't known he was still alive, he knew that from looking at the other people...bodies in the room. Of the six patrol officers who had entered the cramped apartment, only Joseph Danbrooke still drew breath. They lay in equally massive puddles of their own blood; spent casings and shotgun shells littered the floor in abundance. Four of the dead officers clutched Beretta 9mm's, while Danbrooke and the last officer held 12 gauge pump-action shotguns, all were devoid of ammo. A painful spasm racked Danbrooke's body, accompanied by a fit of coughing. He heard sirens in the distance, lots of them, apparently the shooting had attracted back up, but far too late. The sirens were closer now, if he could just hold on for five more minutes, and then the paramedics might be able to help him, just five more minutes. Four and half minutes later, 12:30 am, no one was breathing the apartment, 30 seconds later officers and paramedics rushed on the scene.

It was 11:20, barring anything major, Joseph Danbrooke was set to go off duty in a half-hour. He sipped the steaming coffee and glanced over at his partner in the squad car, Officer George Burnsill, a squat bodybuilder who had been a member of the Hydhing City Police Department little over 3 years. Danbrooke was making idle conversation about the recent high school football game when the call came over the radio. "All units in vicinity of Wilshure, this Squad Car Helo-19, possible 2-19 in progress, 1994 Wilshure Drive. Shots reported and neighbors report hearing screams. We are unable to raise the precinct on the box and request back up. Over." The voice paused for moment. "Shots fired! Shots Fired! Sounded like a shotgun or a heavy rifle. Over." Perking up, Danbrooke clicked the mic to on. "Helo-19 this is Helo-24, we read you. Hold your position until we arrive, ETA four minutes. Over." As George flipped on the siren, Danbrooke heard two more cars report they were inbound, and Helo-19 acknowledge. 1994 Wilshure turned out to be an apartment complex, one with just a few apartments actually inhabited. Helo- 19 was parked on the curbs, its lights flashing; two young and nervous looking officers were standing, guns drawn, poised to enter the building. The other units arrived at roughly the same time. Danbrooke, the senior officer, took immediate command. "Alright, you four, take up positions behind me. Officer Burnsill, you take point; give us the all clear. Understood?" They all replied in the affirmative. The point guard was unnecessary; the screaming led them straight to an apartment at the back. Shouting that they were the HPD and they were coming in, they readied to enter. The screaming continued unabated. Kicking in the door, they charged in. Nothing could have prepared them for what they saw. A man hunched over a very bloodied corpse, the corpse held a large hunting rifle in one dead hand. The man...the man...the mean appeared to be eating the corpse. He ignored shouted orders for him to get down on the ground with his arms spread and his palms open. He ignored repeated orders. Burnsill fired a shot into the man's leg with his 9mm. He did not fall, he simply swerved his head towards the officers and started to get up, he started towards them.  
There was something...wrong with the suspect; Danbrooke saw that immediately. His flesh was gray, and seemed to falling off in places. Blood and meat dripped from his mouth. Danbrooke could not stop thinking Zombie, Zombie, Zombie! But that was impossible, wasn't it? The...creature stumbled slowly towards them at first, ignoring the shouts to stay back and surrender. Suddenly the bullets were flying. It was hit as least a dozen times in the chest and stomach, and still it kept coming. Abruptly, it seemed to get a burst of speed, it half pounced on George, he cried out. Using the butt of his shotgun like, Danbrooke tried to knock the thing off of Burnsill, George's blood flying everywhere. The creature finally went down when Danbrooke hit it in the head. It stopped moving. But so had Burnsill, half of his face had been bitten off. Suddenly there was a noise from the kitchen, the three remaining policemen looked up. Horror spread across their faces. Two more of those things were headed straight for them. They stumbled toward the two closest officers. Danbrooke tried to yell for them to aim for the head, but his shout was lost amid the pure terrified screams of one officer as the first creature reached him and grabbed him close, then the second officer was grabbed by the other...zombie. Danbrooke started blasting away with his shotgun, he finally took down the first zombie. He was about to start on the second creature, which had attacked everyone but Danbrooke, and was starting to advance towards him, when he heard the most ominous and damning sound he had ever heard. click The creature lunged at him, its claw-like hand digging deep into his shoulder. He cried out, futilely attempting to push the thing off him. It pushed him down against the wall, clawing and biting at his midsection and his chest. Suddenly, the radio on his right shoulder sputtered to life. It was the 7th Precinct, and they wanted to know why he hadn't checked in. This seemed to inexplicably startle the creature, it grabbed the two bodies of its fallen comrades, and dragged them through the window, and a moment later it was gone. Danbrooke lay there, all his life's regrets and hesitations; not starting a family, leaving the Marines, not reconciling with his estranged father and brother, came flooding back to him. He lay almost still, struggling to breathe, fighting to stay alive. Someone had to survive to tell the story of what happened here...

The 8th Precinct was only labeled a precinct because it happened to be the only police station within an 80-block radius. It sat in the middle of the mostly suburban Wichita Falls neighborhood of the massive Hydhing City. It was manned by an alternating shift of three officers, with two officers patrolling in a squad car at any given moment. Lieutenant Bailey sat at the small desk in the front, occasionally glancing backwards at the small TV Officers Hunt and Smith had on in the back. The news came on, "HPD units are still reeling after the some of the worst rioting the inner-city has ever seen, much of it sills continues today, as police officers seem almost helpless to stem the tide until it runs its course. Bizarre reports continue to come in of rioters committing acts such as blood drinking, cannibalism, and other wanton and depraved acts. One has to ask, when will the HPD stop this madness, before it spread it to the outlying portions of our city..." Bailey turned his chair around. "Turn that crap off Hunt! You know all that network does is blame us for everything! Smith! See if you can raise Johnston and McGee on the radio, they should have checked in ten minutes ago."  
Hunt switched off the television, and Smith started for the cramped radio room when suddenly a scream pierced the quiet night sky. All three put a hand on their holstered 9mm's and started for the door. That horrible screaming continued from somewhere to the east. They ran towards the sounds, until they saw what was happening, they drew their pistols. A small crowd of about 10-20 people stood and crouched, huddled around a screaming girl. All this was happening on a suburban street corner, yet mysteriously few lights clicked on in the windows of houses. All Bailey, a 30-year veteran, and resident, in fact he lived about six houses down from this display, of this quiet neighborhood could think was Oh please, please don't let the rioting have spilled over here. As they got closer, they heard the moans and groans of the small mob. The screaming had stopped. Lt. Bailey knew just from the sound that this was no riot, or rape for that matter. The crowd turned and the officers stopped in their tracks, Smith and Hunt closest to the mob. Rotting gray flesh hung loose in clumps, their hands were outstretched, they were moaning unearthly. They started toward the officers, ignoring the shouts that they cease advancing. They swarmed around Hunt and Smith, who managed to get off two shots before they were pushed to the ground. That's when the screaming started again. Bailey hauled ass, he ran towards his house, hearing the freakish crowd in the background, but it didn't sound like they were pursuing him. He made it to his house. He opened the door, and went in, gun first. It was silent as a tomb in his house, just the way he left it. He hurried down to the basement, and opened a trap door in the floor. He had built this bomb shelter back in the 50's, and had kept it updated and stockpiled with supplies and weapons out habit more than anything else. As he descended he closed the door behind him. He locked the six dead bolts and the one steal barrier. He never imagined he would be using this shelter to hide from his neighbors, no matter how demented they had become. He had enough supplies to actually last him four whole years, more if he ventured out to the shed in his backyard to get the extra food and water. He grabbed a 12-gauge shotgun, along with 4 boxes of shells, out of a weapons chest against the far wall. He loaded the Winchester completely, and then pocketed the shell boxes. He rushed over to the jumble of radio equipment, both police and civilian, and started desperately trying to raise someone.

The inner city was a war zone. SWAT Officer Brownell, along with his entire squad, all armed with MP5's, tried to hold the barricades keeping Main Street clear against a throng of rioters, both armed and unarmed. As if the rioters weren't bad enough, he had seen with his own those zombie creatures, which defied killing. Damn Mayor Harrison. Thought Brownell. He was referring to the mayor of Hydhing. The reason this riot started in the first place. Harrison, in pursuit of the not so ignoble goal of ridding Hydhing of its many heavily armed criminal militias, had declared martial law. The militias, and pretty much every other kind of criminal had responded in kind. Buildings blazed, and all forms of wanton destruction had ensued. And now Chief Valentino expected just Brownell his SWAT team to keep Main Street, and the government building on it, secure until some vaguely promised back up arrived at a unspecified time. It was after midnight. They had been fighting a holding action since 10:30. Officer Brownell was well past the point where expected any real help was coming from the Chief. He glanced up. The sniper team had taken up position on top of the Judiciary Building. He gave them the hand signal to fire at will. It helped, a bunch of rioters were killed before they got close to the barricades. Tear gas was thrown into the crowd, which did precious little to quell the mob. Brownell could see one street over, heading for their position, an Army surplus humvee, belonging to and filled with members of one of the random militias. Brownell ran over to the squawk-box radio in the armored SWAT van. He broadcast this message over all police bands. "Any units receiving me, this is SWAT Command Officer Brownell, we are currently fighting a slipping a holding action on Main Street. Any units not currently engaged, we need back up, and we need it yesterday. Over." That went out all over the city. He hoped the sirens that started immediately after he finished the broadcast were squad cars rushing to their position. He got a few scattered replies over the radio; he had about 8 confirmed patrol officers on their way. Earlier, SWAT Captain Harnett had promised Brownell more SWAT support, and Brownell knew that if it was in Harnett's power, those reinforcements were en route. He ran to the back of the van, and switched his MP5 and rounds for a fuller automatic and more powerful M4 Carbine; he took 6 banana clips and strapped them to his Kevlar vest. He returned to the conflict, firing into the crowd. He hated Harrison right now. There were National Guardsmen on the steps of the Administrative Building, a lot of Guardsmen. But they were under orders from Harrison to not engage unless the Admin Building, where Harrison and the rest of the slimy bureaucrats cowered, was directly threatened. Of course, Brownell couldn't blame the mayor for these almost unstoppable zombie things that kept cropping up, eating people. The reports of strange cannibalistic murders had started at least a week before martial law had been declared, those reports made sense now, in retrospect. The humvee roared towards the barricade, but was taken out by a RPG fired by Brownell's third in command, SWAT Officer Garrison. A radio report came in from a sniper on top of one of the other buildings. A huge mob of those creatures, formerly rioters, was headed for the barricade, ETA 10 minutes. Brownell took heart in the three squad cars he saw racing towards the barricade. Brownell ordered his team to, one by one, switch out for M4 Carbines. But the rioters, the militia, and even Harrison were about to become the least of the HPD officers in that area's worries.

Another barricade on a smaller street, this one manned by only patrol officers, was facing a worse horror. They had managed to suppress the rioting in the vicinity, only to be almost immediately set upon by a crowd of those zombies. Their moans, and the screams of their victims, shattered the momentarily quiet air. Of the original 20 officers manning this barricade, rioters had shot 12, and those things had dragged two off. There were too damn many, at lest for six officers with Berettas and limited ammo to stave off. The shooting stopped as at least 100, most likely many more; zombies rushed the barricade, sweeping it aside. The only sounds left in this area of Inner-Hydhing was the final screams of the officers, the crying of people in the night, and the groans of the impossible creatures.

Brownell was doing well, or at least better, than he was an hour ago. Ten squad cars had showed up, along with several patrol officers on foot. That meant he had 27 patrol officers, and 10 SWAT officers under his command. Not only that, but by pure force of will and pleading, he had convinced two National Guardsmen, with their M16's to assist them. The zombie crowd had stopped two blocks away to butcher a group of survivors; bad for the normal citizens, but it gave Brownell a little more time. With his current force he could hang on, and handle to rioters and militia, until the SWAT support arrived. Brownell expected them to arrive by 2:45, which was an hour from then. The militia members, armed with Kalashnikovs, had joined up with a group of gang members with Uzi's and handguns, and they now had a serious firefight on their hands. Brownell lost four patrol officers in the span of ten minutes. He started to get a little more worried; the zombies were on the move toward the barricade. Suddenly, overhead, a chopper flew past; Brownell recognized the Umbrella corporate logo on the side, he wondered what the hell was going on. There was an Umbrella chemical processing facility about a mile on the outskirts of the city, but why was Umbrella flying in personnel?  
He had little time to contemplate that. A signal came over the radio; it was SWAT Captain Harnett. He and two SWAT vans were en route, but they were pinned by militia fire 20 blocks to the south. Their most optimistic ETA was half an hour. Brownell acknowledge, sighed, and resigned himself to his fate, whatever that fate may turn out to be. The hulking zombies had overtaken the gang members and militia fighters. Those that weren't taking part in the dismemberment and devouring of the criminals had turned and started for the front of the barricade. Brownell yelled a reminder about headshots, and started firing. He got another radio transmission. It was a different sniper, farther north. It seemed the militias were sending in reinforcements, a large convoy would be there at roughly the same time as Captain Harnett. Things had seemed bearable for a while, now it was all going back to hell. He hoped the other denizens of Hydhing were faring better.

They were banging on the trapdoor; Bailey could hear them. He knew it would hold, but he didn't know if he himself would. His nerves were shot. He had taken each one of his four shotguns, loaded them completely, and set them where he could reach them instantly. He pocketed half of the total extra shells, and out the other half in a loose pouch on his belt. He had holstered two Desert Eagles. He knew it even this impressive array of weaponry might not be enough. If there were enough of them to start going into house, and discover his trapdoor, then there were a lot. He was 50, not young, he didn't even know whether he might have a heart attack or not. He knew that eventually he would have to go up there and clear the things out of his house, if only to keep his sanity.

Alfred Whudan was a SWAT sniper, the highest rated they had. Give him a Weatherby rifle and a target; he'd hit them. Scope or no scope, didn't matter. He was about three-quarters of a mile to the north of the Main Street barricade, in city distance: a mile was a lot. He watched the militia convoy roar past mobs of zombies. He set his sights for the guy in the jeep, he was sure that was the de facto leader. He didn't dare draw a laser bead yet, not until right before he took his shot. He waited five minutes, until the glare of moon was no longer on the right of the convoy. He drew up a laser bead, and took the shot. The guy was dead before he knew he'd been shot. The convoy stopped. Whudan smiled. That ought to slow them down for a while. Just to be sure, he took quick aim and shot two drivers. Whudan heard commotion down below him; in the office building he was situated on the roof of. He heard screaming, thumps, and the telltale moan of those creatures that had been plaguing the city. The commotion sounded like it had no plans of letting up soon. Alfred took out his sidearm, a .50 Desert Eagle, and laid down next to him, he knew he was the best shot anywhere, those creatures came up here, he would shot them once. And not have to shoot them twice. He used his scope to check out the convoy situation. They were still stopped, Alfred had a done a good job of sniping and sowing discord. As an added bonus, several creatures were headed toward the convoy. Alfred knew this wouldn't be his last task of the night. He put his eight-inch combat knife next to the Desert Eagle, just in case.

Brownell acknowledged the sniper. He was elated the convoy had been delayed. His force was almost done mopping up the last rush from those creatures. They had sustained only two casualties from the various charges. He knew it was only fast reactions, and good training, that had kept the number of dead or wounded down. He laid down a couple headshots into the creatures, when the heard the unmistakable whizzing siren of the SWAT vans. They were only two blocks away. The only problem was that because of the barricade, the reinforcements would have to leave their vehicles outside the barricade, and walk half a block to only entrance in the barricade. Brownell didn't anticipate that would pose too much difficulty, however, as the reinforcements all had M4 Carbines, and most of the hostiles in the area had been cleared. As the newly arrived men began to disembark, Brownell hand signaled to the closest sniper, Smith, to cover the reinforcements if need be; Smith, almost a speck in the night sky, signaled affirmative. Harnett came out of the lead van. He smiled and gave Brownell a thumbs-up, which Brownell returned.

SWAT sniper Smith's dead body lay where it shot in the back of the head. A man in strange a black BDU, with a black ski-mask, had taken the sniper rifle. He had his sights on SWAT Captain Harnett, waiting for the right moment. When the captain gave the ridiculous sign of encouragement, the Umbrella Special Forces member knew it was time. He re- aimed for accuracy, and took the shot. Captain Harnett fell to the ground, gasping for breath. Taking advantage, the sniper fired six more shot, in quick succession. Six SWAT officers fell to the ground, dead. Satisfied he had crippled the reinforcing of the barricade, he prepared to leave.

Brownell broadcasted to the other three snipers, informing them that Smith had gone crazy, to take Smith out. Whudan's voice came over the radio. "That's not Smith."

Whudan had the stranger in his sights. The black clad man was a far sight at over half a mile, but Alfred knew he could hit him. And he did.

The man was content; he was walking toward the fire escape, he had set evidence that would point toward the sniper. He had made it look like the officer had been shot after he had fired on his fellow police. The man felt safe, none of the SWAT snipers were close enough to be able to shoot him. That smug feeling was his last thought, as the back of his head exploded.

Chaos ruled in the city. Large portions of the city were by now devoid of most life, excluding the police fighting to secure desperate holding positions from the ever-growing undead horde. To the east, in one of the industrial districts, pressed up against their cars, ten patrol officers and two transit cops were fighting a losing battle against a relentless onslaught of nightmares, which just kept advancing. This is all wrong, thought Yuri Jones, a transit cop. There was supposed to be some light, living rioting in this area. The only reason he and his partner were even armed with guns was because the regulars had needed all the back up they could get during this rioting. No, this was all goddamn wrong. No one living was here, and these gray mottled, ah screw it he'd just say it, zombies, were pouring out of all the buildings he could see. They were all messed up, missing flesh, organs, limbs; he even saw one that was chopped in half, dragging itself by its hands. At least they had figured the trick was to go for head shots, the only problem was that none of the assembled officers were that a good a shot.. Finally Yuri gave up; the last radio chatter he heard had talked about a major stand of cops in this area at Parcel Station, a subway station. He had been unable to reach anyone in any other part of the city, some kind of static interference. He jumped into a squad car, shouting for anyone who wanted to live hurry his ass into the car. The one other transit cop and seven remaining officers cramped hastily into the car. Yuri floored it, crashing his way through the converging hordes, making haste for Parcel Station, 20 blocks away.

It was now 3:40 am. And Brownell hated Mayor Harrison, hated him with every bone in his body. The National Guardsmen had gotten airlifted reinforcements, and all but the two still refused to help. Even so, he took a little heart in the airlift; it meant that the military base in the southeastern district of Hydhing wasn't overrun. In fact, there was chance that that particular area was clear. Brownell had managed to get the surviving SWAT reinforcements in to the barricade just in time. The militia convoy, carrying little over 40 militia members, had chosen that time to show up, right on fated time, as another mob of those rotting people- zombies-, a ridiculously large one, had shown up at the same time. So now Brownell and his men had to hold off an undead horde and, at the same time, stave off the militia rush. The two hostile groups actually helped with that, fighting each other in the midst of converging on Main Street. And without Smith as their guardian angel from above, eliminating those rotting freaks in stack with single headshots, taking on the zombies had become a hell of a lot harder. There were now no less than 15 National Guardsmen just STANDING on the goddamn City Hall Admin Building, not to mention an unknown number of them posted in the building itself. A strange thing though, one Guardsman had a stinger, he was observing the sky like a hawk. The line was faltering, and Brownell knew it. The barricade to the left was crumbling, as a result of hours of gunfire, and simple pressure of constant walking corpses pressing up against it. A sizable hole was now evident in the once whole combination concrete/storm fence barricade. They had sustained six casualties from the militias, four SWAT and two patrol officers. Up until roughly 15 minutes ago they had managed, by virtue of the barricade, to not sustain any zombie-inflicted casualties; at least not any deaths, Johnny Martinez was lying in the back of one of the SWAT vans in the barricade, with nasty looking zombie bite. Fifteen minutes ago, the zombies had scored their first two points, dragging away two of the policemen; a SWAT Officer who had been part of Jim Brownell's team for only six months, and an Irish looking patrol officer whom Jim hadn't even met before. Brownell had refocused their strength to the southern barricade; the one where the worst fighting had taken place all night, also the end that was crumbling, and the area where Brownell had been fighting. That left only two SWAT officers and one helpful National Guardsmen to watch and handle the quiet north barricade of Main Street. The militias, Jim had stopped bothering to notice the different ones an hour into the fighting, would seem to be finished, then suddenly be able to conjure up an entire humvee convoy or two. For the last hour there was a steady stream of those rotting creatures, as it seemed the previously fallen people, those killed and not entirely devoured by the zombies, were re-animated as creatures themselves. Brownell had yet another tough fight on his hands.

Yuri knew something was wrong. His "spider sense" had started tingling when the more upscale industrial area in the vicinity of Parcel Station was unnervingly devoid of any life, undead or otherwise. Due to some major demolition holes in the street in front of the station, they had to park a block away. And were forced to wade, practically waist-deep, revolvers drawn, through the streets filled with insanely bloody corpses. Yuri's suspicions were all but confirmed then they reached the stairs down to Parcel Station; the steps were slick with a coating of blood, and corpses, police, civilian, and zombie, littered the entrance. Worse, the fences and storm barriers that had obviously been put up by the on the defensive police, and probably would have protected them for long, looked like they had either been hit by a truck or wrenched open by huge animal. Hurrying down, as they heard no undead moans, Yuri and the others rushed upon a massacred scene. There had to be at least 15 dead and partially eaten patrol officers, and at least 30 butchered transit cops. There was only death here. No, that wasn't correct; toward the back, laying a pool of blood on the security kiosk, was one transit cop struggling for breath. Yuri rushed over to him, and asked him what happened.  
The transit cop, whom Yuri had called Chuck, whom was also clutching a service pistol, was racked by a fit of bloody coughs. "Yuri? Thank God you weren't here for this, otherwise that would've been you lying next to me, dead. We had just gotten the barricades up, when this huge...thing...never got a good look at it, tore into em, ripping apart the steel like paper. It ran away after that. The huge gang, no horde, of those...zombies that we were hiding from down here immediately rushed us, overwhelmed us. We didn't even have time to use the weapons cache. It was over in a matter of minutes. Commissioner Stuart, about ten of our guys, you know transit cops; along with some U.S.T.A.R.S captain and five of his guys, took the last subway car. I heard Stuart say they were headed for the secondary control room, you know the one deep in the mess of tunnels. That must be where they were headed, because almost all of the other stations are infested with zombies, and they would need more guys to get to the Main Control Room. You know those controls rooms are built like tanks. Do me one last favor Yur?" He called Yuri by his nickname. The Commissioner Stuart he was referring to was the head of the transit security authority. U.S.T.A.R.S was an acronym for "Urban Special Tactics and Retrieval Squad", from what Yuri had heard of them, they were the Delta Force or Green Berets of Hydhing Police Department. "Anything, name it Chuck." Yuri said, fighting back tears.  
"Go into the tunnels, find as many of our guys that are still living as you can, and meet up with Stuart." Yuri said he would. "Hold up, you aren't gonna get far in some of those tunnels with just revolvers. Here, take this, it's the mag-card needed to open the security office and the small armory in there." Chuck handed Yuri a credit card like pass, and pointed to a an electronic door to the back left. The door was heavily bloodstained, with blocky, faded blue-stenciled lettering that was barely readable as "Parcel Station Area Security Office". And then, without warning, Chuck's last vestiges of life left him, his eyes rolling back and a rasp escaping from his throat. Yuri acted like he knew Chuck would have wanted him to, he wasted no time grieving. Warning the others to keep a sharp lookout, he immediately started to unlock the security office.

At 4:15 Jim Brownell learned the purpose of the stinger, if not the why behind it. A second black Umbrella helicopter came in to sight. This one, like the earlier chopper who had come and gone, was also headed in the direction of the Umbrella Chemical Processing Facility. It was in sight for all of one minute when it was brought down. The why still plagued Brownell, even as he fired into a crowd of freaks.

It was 5:10, a momentary lull in the fighting, the embattled officers having fought and died to earn every bloody inch of the respite. A radio transmission came in from one of the last remaining light roadblocks. "Lieutenant Brownell? This is road black alpha. We got a single militia jeep detained here, People's Liberation Front, two guys. Both unarmed. The one in charge is demanding the right to a peaceful talk with you, he says he can stop some of this fighting." "Let em through, that's an order."

The militia member identified himself as Brevet Colonel John Mackinaw, People's Liberation Front. Jim knew about that militia, they were leftists, but not that extreme in comparison to some of the other Hydhing militias. Mackinaw was the most obnoxious bastard Jim had ever met. He droned on and on about the benefits of peace in times of crisis, Brownell started spacing out about the third time the guy said "popular front," before he actually got to the point. The leaders of the PLF were willing to cease taking up arms against whatever was left of the Hydhing PD. But only if such an arrangement included amnesty granted to any militia member that participated in the cease-fire. If these terms were agreed to, the PLF agreed to bring in half a convoy of jeeps outfitted with mounted .50 Caliber Machine guns.  
Jim could see the wisdom in joining forces, after all their common and most dangerous enemy was the freaks. He agreed, under the condition that the jeeps contained only a driver and a gunner for the mounted fifty-cals'. No more troops at the moment. It was agreed upon, after which Jim had the 'Fronters' promptly tossed from barricade. Soon the six jeeps arrived. They each took a slanted position, allowing them greater range in terms of streets. It was lucky, because the east sniper reported that a hulking mob of zombies was headed straight for Main Street barricade. Brownell knew that when Mayor Harrison learned of this flimsy alliance, he would blow his top. Jim enjoyed knowing that, he truly did; he relished the anticipation of the moment when an enraged mayor would try to chew him out, maybe strike him in punishment. When he did that, Brownell would kill him. And the he would kill the disloyal Police Chief, who had lied about reinforcements.

Alfred watched all this with what was the closest feeling to glee he had ever experienced. His initial assessment had been correct. He had expected as daybreak drew nearer, that at least of one the beleaguered militias would try a cease-fire with the HPD. The undead moaning continued from the offices below Whudan. He retook the prone position, sighting and taking out zombies and rioters alike, the normal rioting had re-sparked in this area.

The security office was more like a locker room than an office. Except Yuri knew that instead of clothing and towels, salvation in the form of firearms were in those lockers. Quickly he distributed a riot helmet to each officer. Along with a powerful 10-gauge pump-action shotgun, with 4 boxes of shells each. They all holstered their revolvers, after taking extra ammo. They were ready to go. They emerged onto the platform, the massacre. They all were prepped. Taking the time to pump their shotguns, just in case, they descended into the dark of the subway tunnels.

It was dawn, blessed dawn, 5:45 am. But Jim did not expect these zombie things to burst into fames at mere contact with the rays of the sun, and they did not prove him wrong. The huge mob kept advancing, seeming to grow larger. Brownell shouted "Weapons free!"  
Having given the order to fire at will, Brownell pursued that goal with wild abandon. He shot a like madman, banana clip after banana clip. The added firepower given to the defenders by the militia's vehicle-mounted machine guns was truly awesome. The mob of Freaks melted under the whithering stream of bullets like wheat under a harvester. The horde was quickly subdued, no completely annihilated. Sunlight was coming quicker now. This was a welcome sight. The fighting had stopped completely now, and the fighters took heart. But it was not to last forever. Even now, the unearthly moans of the out-of-sight undead shattered the tranquility. Distant gunfire could be heard all over the city. Martinez had died during the night, from that freak bite. They just lay his body next to the van until they could give him a proper SWAT burial.  
The number of undead to seem to stay at a manageable amount. While, with the new day, the chaotic rioting of the living had begun anew. Suddenly, in the not too far-off distance, the end began. Buildings started going up in explosive flames. Blazes started. But Brownell had little time to think about that now; a mob of at least 200 of those rotting freaks was advancing on the crumbling barricade. And more kept popping up, it like for every one zombie they put down, ten took its place. It was going to be over soon, Jim knew that. Some rioters, who seemed unaware that the majority of their fellows were dead and walking, threw molotov cocktails at the forward three militia jeeps, and they brewed up in flames, costing Brownell half of his heavy guns in a matter of moments. They were losing front officer after front officer after front officer, as the hole in the barricade grew larger and larger. Brownell was ordering them to fall back to the base of the steps. But their actions would hold for a while yet.

According to the clock in Bailey's shelter, it was morning. It now or never to clear those unholy freaks out of his house. Gathering his courage, he thrust open the trapdoor. There were no creatures in his basement, and his house was strangely quiet. Holding the shotgun in front of him, he carefully pushed open the door to his living room. There were dead bodies in his house! Partially eaten, and bloodied, but not sign of the creatures responsible. He heard some sort of growling past the door to his computer room. He approached it slowly, weapon first. Abruptly, the door swung open, and one of those creatures, bloodstained and terrifying, lunged for him. He shot it twice before it went down. He quickly checked the rest of the downstairs, more bodies, but no zombies. He heard nothing from the rest of the house. Bill Bailey heard shooting outside his house. He rushed out, albeit cautiously. Some civilians, people he thought he recognized from the neighborhood, wielding long hunting rifles, were attempting to hold off a gang of those freaks. Bailey shouted for them to come with him, he was a policeman, and he had a bomb shelter. They complied, he and the six civilians thundered into his house. And not a moment too soon, right then the clouds darkened, it started pouring. It was almost as dark as night again.  
As they all set down for an extended stay in the shelter, Bailey took stock of the new arrivals. Of the eight, six looked like they were brothers and sisters; all had the same hooknose and strange dirty blonde hair. One of the other two was collapsed in the corner, brandishing a rather nasty looking zombie bite in his abdomen, being cradled by one of the six. The last one was the shortest grown man Bailey had ever seen. He stood facing the door, his hand thrust forward; in it was a pathetically small revolver that looked like it came from a dime store. His hand was shaking violently. Bailey sighed; he hoped that bringing these people down here wasn't a mistake.

Things were going relatively well for Jim Brownell and his beleaguered police forces. They had managed to clear out a large of contingent of zombies just as they were preparing to feat upon the officers. While the barricade bad been well and truly breached, any zombies that got close enough to the Administrative Building to make the Guardsmen the smallest bit nervous were torn apart in a shower of M16 bullets. Brownell and the remaining officers were now hiding behind and shooting from the SWAT van in the upper-left of the street. This isn't so bad now, maybe we will make if out of this. Thought Brownell. That musing raised his spirits for all of five seconds. That was when Johnny Martinez stood up. Not woke up. Not came back to life. Simply stood up. That was about the time Brownell realized the sinking sensation in his gut was gone, because he couldn't feel his gut. Martinez's.corpse lunged for the nearest patrol officer, and succeeded in tearing out most of the man's throat. As Martinez was lunging for another victim, Brownell and the others seemed to regain their senses, and Martinez disappeared in hail of gunfire. Shaking visibly, and wholly unnerved, Jim turned from the barely recognizable form of his former subordinate, and learned a new definition for the adjective horrified. He then realized that the Guardsmen had been shouting warnings at him. Naturally, the rotting creatures swarming over and through the barricade hadn't stopped advancing when the officers were too shocked by the turn of events to notice. They were hopelessly close to the van now. Slowly but surely swarming ever closer to the exhausted policemen. Jim hastily gave the order to open fire as the first of the horde converged on one forward SWAT officer, a group of them stopping to crouch and devour. There were too goddamn close! Brownell and the fifteen assorted SWAT officers, for there were no patrol officers left alive now, took out as many of the freaks as they could, but it a doomed and hasty action. Within the space of two minutes, only ten men remained living under Brownell's commands. Mentally cursing fate, Brownell screamed for them to make a run for the steps of the Administration Building. The surviving SWAT officers hastily obliged, sprinting far faster then the slowly turning zombies could stumble. As his men hurried up the marble stairs, Brownell said gruffly to the captain in charge of the Guardsman, "Still feel like watching my men get killed or are you gonna' give us some goddamn help now?" The rage and desperation warring on Brownell's face made it clear to the captain that maintain his ordered neutrality would be an absurdly bad idea. The captain, his nameplate declared him to be A. Freemont, turned to his men and in a deep southern drawl declared, "Well boys, I reckon we're gonna make a line here, keep your peckers up and mark your shots."

Now turned, and advancing towards the steps of City Hall, the hordes of undead were mercilessly cut down by the combined automatic fire of the SWAT and Guardsmen. A line was indeed drawn, for in the beginning no zombie got within seven feet of the foot of the stairs. The.undead fell in stacks at the foot of the steps, they were truly knee-deep in the dead. During a momentary lull in the advance, Brownell wondered if there were any other pockets of human resistance left in this dead city. He was unable to contemplate an answer, as the assault began anew. There must have been at least a few humans left in the city, certainly a good number of rioters, for about 12:30 pm, the rainy sky still black as night, buildings all over Hydhing began to blaze and fall to various explosions. Within a short time, Hydhing was a city bedecked in flame. The fighting continued unabated.

Bill Bailey had this strange sensation in his gut, it seemed to tell him we was going to regret offering sanctuary to the civilians filling his basement shelter. Bailey had asked them who they were. They said that the six of them were all siblings, their parents had died after the a year ago, right after the youngest, still cradling his friend, had graduated from High School. The other two were friends of the family, and their encounter with the zombies had begun when they attempted to rescue the wounded one from the clutches of the rotting freaks. A scream pierced the air in the shelter. All eyes turned to the corner. The wounded man, who must have died while still being held by the young brother, was biting deeply into the neck of the young man. The others, while still shocked, were not frozen in place for more than a moment. Somehow sensing that the youngest brother was dead already, the eight of them, including Bailey, let loose a fury of bullets, and the creature was stilled.

Brownell had had enough of this, he was sick


End file.
